Under Gravestones
by AHughAndCry
Summary: A missing story. A major lie. Before Forks and before Bella, Edward Cullen fell in love. And now he's ready to tell you the truth about Rosalie. Canon/Vamp.
1. Chapter 1

Note: I'm trying to keep this in canon as much as possible. I admit that I haven't picked through every book of the Saga with a microscope, so please excuse any factual errors. I only ask for your attention, and I only hope for your enjoyment. -Hugh

* * *

**-Under Gravestones—**

"**If we had happy endings, we'd all be under gravestones now."**

Rosalie Hale, _Eclipse_

* * *

Take a moment and think of sex. Raw, dirty, uncompromising sex. The kind of sex that feels most at home crushed against a grimy brick wall with traffic sounding in the background. Fast and hard and merciless. It's the sort of sex that requires an imbalance. You take advantage of her, know her, own her. You walk away feeling dirty and revolted, but satisfied in a base way. It's foul and loveless, the very definition of depravity. But it feels disgustingly, undeniably _good._

That's what it's like to read a mind.

Thoughts are never pure. They're never simple or elegant. It's all sensation and color, blasts of anxiety and desire and anger. I can crawl inside a mind and feel it all, root out the darkest places and take hold with hands and teeth. Reading someone's mind is more personal and wicked than sex could ever be.

I've made the easy choice this time. I found someone with a mind like stagnant water. I can't hear her thoughts. None of them. I'll never know her deepest secrets, or feel the way her thoughts heat and flicker when I touch her. I'll never know her the way I knew Rosalie Hale.

—

I am Edward Cullen. You see me as principled—perhaps _gentlemanly _if you're feeling particularly sentimental. I appreciate the compliment, and I might even use it to feed the veneer of arrogance I like to carry. But you're wrong about me.

My face might appeal to you, but as far as vices go, mine are some of the least attractive. Chief among them is dishonesty. I tell you this now for three reasons: first, because you must be careful about stories told by men who lie, and second because dishonesty figures prominently in the tale I have to tell.

But third, and most importantly of all, is the fact that I've never been completely honest with you. Not until now.

—

I had expected 1933 to be a good year, but not for any informed reason. My optimism was after the fashion of philosophers, that there's something pleasing about the number three. It's balanced in an organic way, the sum of the numbers that precede it.

As it happened, 1933 was the least balanced year of my existence.

It didn't begin as anything special, but the change of the year is hardly ever special when you're immortal. Time feels different when nothing about you ever changes. The growth of my mind is every bit as stubborn as the stone-solid cells in my perpetually boyish body. I didn't expect change, in part because of the plodding monotony of vampirism, and in part because, at that time, I was stuck in a particularly boggy pit self-satisfaction.

The only thing more arrogant than actually _being_ a superhero is deciding that you're too good to be one. In 1933, I was freshly removed from my life as a savior of humanity. At that point, I knew that hunting criminals had only been a scheme to satisfy my gluttony and my ego simultaneously. But you already know how that story goes.

The important aspect is that two years after my return to Carlisle, I was still relishing the feel of my repentance. Life with Carlisle was, and still is, a prolonged penance, even if our only sin is being what we are.

In 1933, for a reason I might never understand, he decided to inflict the sin of vampirism upon Rosalie Hale.

I'll never forget the first time I saw her. You might admire her beauty now, but _then_ she was a pitiful, bloody creature. The venom hadn't done much when Carlisle brought her into the house. It had only seeped into her body enough to yank ghastly screams from her throat. A tiny peek at the girl's thoughts was all it took. I knew instantly what had happened to her. She was a victim of creatures far worse than I. Thugs, rapists, the sort of disgusting fools that even a vampire would refuse to ingest.

Death would have been a blessing for Rosalie Hale.

I respect Carlisle; at times, I even worship him like a household deity. But like any father-son relationship, we've had our tense moments. This, as you can guess, was one of them.

Imagine the scene. There was Carlisle, standing gravely over the young woman as she writhed and shrieked on the floor. It might seem debased to you that Miss Hale was on the floor, but it really was the safest place for her—there she could fall no farther than she already had.

Carlisle's expression was _patient_ of all things. I suppose waiting is all one can do in the thick of transformation. Yet there was something perverse about Carlisle's posture, for I could not eject from my mind the notion that he had _done this_ to her.

Esme, at least, crouched by her side, laying a cool towel on her brow. We all knew there was no point to it. But Esme always behaved this way—motherly—without real effect. Her reaction was just a ghost from her former life, the persistent haunting of her dead human child.

Esme dabbed the perspiring brow. Carlisle waited. My rage boiled.

"Why?" I spat abruptly. "Why did you change her?"

I didn't wait for Carlisle to reply aloud. Instead, I ripped the answer from his thoughts before he could soften the meaning with careful articulation.

I can't think of a time I've been angrier. Nor can I imagine a moment in which I've hated Carlisle more. He isn't my father, and in that moment, I was ashamed I had ever agreed to be called his son.

"My mate?" I hissed, uncrossing my arms to gesture viciously at the girl on the floor. "You did this… you changed this… this _pre-chewed meat _so she could be my _mate_?"

Carlisle's eyes begged for my understanding, but it was an expression he made so frequently that it had lost its effect long ago.

"Foul… disgusting… how dare—"

"Edward!" cried Esme, springing to her feet. "She would have died!"

"Yes! And what a gift that would have been."

Carlisle intended to speak, but I plucked out his thoughts prematurely. "For someone who claims to be so enlightened, I thought you realized that it's uncivilized to present human beings as gifts. You really think I'd like this? I'd rather fuck a werewolf."

You must pardon my attitude. As I have said, I was still on a warpath of self-righteousness at the time. And self-righteousness is never a good position for a seventeen-year-old, undead though I may be. But I've pledged my honesty, so truth I will give you, even if it spoils my charm forever.

I did not linger long in the room with Rosalie. I didn't even stay in the house. I ran from that place faster than I had run from Carlisle the first time. I ran and ran, and with every stride I felt the rage within me morph beautifully to hunger.

Here I must tell you that vampire _hunger_ is misnamed. It's nothing like your human urges. Vampire hunger is deep, metaphysical, a condition of the brain, not the belly. It stirs the neurons like rage, warms the gut like sexual desire. It floods the body with venom—muscles, mouth, eyeballs. When hunger overtakes a vampire, he is less creature than machine, with clockwork gears turning in one direction only, no flexibility, no alternative result.

I could have killed hundreds of humans without a thought.

To this day, I don't truly know why I didn't. Perhaps it was some shred of doubt buried deep in my heart, the faint stirring of a notion that Carlisle didn't deserve such hatred. Somehow I remembered that I was still a _person_, even though I hadn't been human for decades. I was a person, and so were my prey.

So instead I devoured countless deer, perhaps every deer in all of Rochester. And it was only after the most undignified gluttony that I found calmness again.

For hours, I stood on the bank of the miry Genesee River, watching swirls of toxic chemicals gurgle with the flow. A few miles upstream, photographic developers poured death into the water. There was not a fish alive in that river.

Nor was there a cell alive in Rosalie Hale's body, I realized, drawing my hand across my bloodied mouth in one lazy wipe.

The sun was rising. Planetary motion never ceased, even for vampires. I cursed to myself. Often, I wished for a sort of eternal night, for everything—human, animal, monster—to lie dormant eternally. And then I would just stand, as I was standing then at the river, until my body petrified. Until I could sleep.

What I did not realize was that I was asleep already. I only needed Rosalie Hale to wake me. All I had to do was return home.

And return I did, though I was unready to speak with my father. I leapt in through my bedroom window and settled myself on the divan. There I sat, in limbo, unable to accept what had happened, yet finished with my anger.

I've never been good at waiting, so I decided to _listen_ instead.

She was cool now, her heartbeat creeping to its last sound. Her wounds were gone by then, but the pain was still there. Pain of a different and more severe breed. I touched her thoughts… _stroked _them… until they were plain before me.

Rosalie Hale was crying. Her whole mind was quivering, sobbing, _bruised_.

I listened to her thoughts for hours, heaving in superfluous breaths with each shudder of her brain. And all the while her own body remained motionless.

My mind was burrowing within hers, repulsed, fascinated.

I didn't want to stop listening. And in that, I would find my downfall.


	2. Chapter 2

[2]

Virgin.

Say it aloud if you must. There's something distasteful about the way it sounds. The word has the foul timbre of a disease or a transgression. I think that's why we find so many euphemisms for the condition. Innocent. Pure. Maiden.

Now try applying any of those adjectives to me. I had killed plenty of people by 1933—a fact which precludes the distinction of "pure" or "innocent." So I guess you might've called me Edward: the vampire maiden.

You're laughing. Perhaps that's the best attitude for the matter. But at the time, I can assure you, I didn't find it funny at all.

It… _unsettled_ me to think about sex. Unfortunately, few other men seemed to share my reluctance. It's especially difficult to ignore a man's thoughts when they're saturated by groans and thrusts and a naked woman. And even more difficult when that naked woman is Rosalie Hale.

I had spent scarcely a week in Rochester before I saw someone's imagination thoroughly fucking Miss Hale. And that was hardly the last time. In that city, she was the queen of socialites. The Paris Hilton of yesteryear. Though far from a loose woman, she was the star of many fantasies. Back then, her admirers were plentiful, her suitors indulgent.

My repressed streak of vulgarity had yearned to see this celebrity beyond men's lurid minds. I wanted to witness Rosalie Hale _in the flesh_. I was curious, you might say. Curious to unlock the mystery of this woman, curious to observe the commander of so many minds.

I still remember the first time I saw her. When she appeared, it was hard _not _to see her, for she possessed the sort of rare beauty that holds a special magnetism for stares. Even vampire eyes found it a great challenge to look away. She was stunning even then. Her human softness and imperfection seemed more boon than pitfall.

But she didn't tempt me.

When I finally laid eyes upon the human Rosalie, I wanted to laugh. This woman was not transcendent, I thought, shaking my head with bemusement. There was nothing inspiring about her. She reminded me of a Christmas tree, so overburdened by ornaments and gifts that one could scarcely see the evergreen beneath. I had a suspicion that I wouldn't find robust boughs behind Rosalie's glitter.

Sure enough, when I reached into her mind, I felt only excess and self-indulgence. Her brain was a shallow pool, and if I was to dive, I wanted it to be into deep water.

I had always craved a different sort of beauty. A woman who stirred something pure and profound in me, or unlocked a mythical feeling I had hitherto never felt. Simple men pined for Rosalie Hale. Simple, crass, _human _men.

You know this was all an excuse. I aimed for the intangible, because I was afraid of anything I could actually _touch. _

Yes, women frightened me. _Sex _frightened me. Even now, this admission is embarrassing to me.

But I couldn't stay away from Rosalie forever. Now she was a Cullen, a sorry member of our accidental family. I left the care and explanations to Carlisle and Esme. Of course, as soon as Rosalie woke, they fed her pleasant lies.

"You were on the brink of death," whispered my father. "Far too young to face the end."

Esme joined the Pollyanna choir. "We're here for you now. Forever."

I listened to this twaddle from my room, restraining myself. "Carlisle kept your corpse fresh so I could use it to satisfy my lust," I wanted to say. "Welcome to the family."

Thankfully, I governed my impulses and kept to myself in those first days. I stayed away while they took her hunting. I played record upon record of loud jazz as the pleasantries and euphemisms spewed from my parents' mouths.

But for some reason, I wanted to _listen. _Rosalie hardly said a thing. She followed Carlisle's instructions without protest. She stayed away from her family and friends. She hunted only animals. Yet she rarely spoke. The more infrequent her words, the more I looked for answers within her brain.

I found a void. In the hours of her transformation, I had watched a horrifying maelstrom of pain claw through her synapses. I had listened ceaselessly, _obsessively_, to her mind. I followed each of her thoughts until the blizzard had calmed.

Now, I saw a desert. Emptiness was interrupted by fleeting beats of pretty things—she likes the honey color of Esme's hair. She admires our Persian carpet. She misses her collection of dresses.

I couldn't explain my disappointment. Did I want her to live in torment forever? Did I expect abuse to add complexity to this woman? Any answer was perverse.

Eventually, I concluded that my initial assessment had been correct—that despite trauma and transformation, she would always be a shallow creature. In this, I convinced myself that she was no danger to me. I could defy Carlisle's intentions and treat her as a lost child, not a as potential lover. So I decided to meet her at last.

I found her alone one day, more than a week after her transformation. Carlisle and Esme had gone away for the morning, leaving her by the fireplace. I descended a few steps and looked down upon her from above.

She sat on the couch, fiddling with a swatch of ornate fabric—Esme planned to have new frocks made to replace her former wardrobe. Rosalie tossed the current piece aside and plucked a new one from the pile.

I took another step, and her attention flitted to me. Her movements were still sharp and sudden. It would take decades of practice for her to move slowly again.

"Miss Hale," I said, bowing my head slightly. "I apologize for my discourteous behavior. I should have introduced myself earlier."

"You're Edward," she said stonily, shattering my attempted decorousness.

"Yes." Discomfort overtook me. I yearned for a hat to wring between my hands.

Satisfied, she merely averted her eyes and picked up another swatch.

I hovered awkwardly behind the couch for a few moments, feeling oddly unbalanced. Gently, I probed her mind—my habit when someone's behavior confuses me. But I saw only imaginary dresses made from the fabric samples, each ostentatious enough to seem at home in Versailles.

I grew suddenly and inexplicable aggravated. Before I knew where I was going, I found myself next to Rosalie on the couch. She seemed to shrink away from me, yet only dresses touched her thoughts.

"You're a vampire now," I blurted.

"Yes. I'm aware." More dresses danced in her thoughts. Some jewelry. A pair of high-heeled shoes.

"And— And you feel all right?"

Her eyes darted to mine, and she seemed to examine me deeply. In her mind, she wore one of her new dresses, swaying slightly to the melody of low music. Then a sudden flash, and ice seared through my brain. It was just a singular thought in Rosalie's mind—a quick and monstrous flicker. It was crimson. Hot. Clawing. Shrieking. Her voice laughing. Snapping bones. And it was over almost instantly. Again, I saw the image of her swaying to low music.

So brief was this spasm of her mind that I wasn't sure it had happened at all. Yet there I was on the couch beside her, completely frozen, eyes wide.

"What's the matter?" she asked me, her voice frosty.

"N—nothing." I leapt to my feet. "Nothing."

I abandoned any notion of politeness and fled. Whatever I had seen in Rosalie Hale's mind went beyond my fascination. It had hurt me—physically—just to sense that thought. For the first time in a decade I felt something… it took me hours to identify the sensation. Panic. I felt panic.

This had never happened to me before—that I could read a mind and not understand what I was seeing. What was that ephemeral, frightening thought? Hatred? Hunger? I still don't understand what drove me to find the answer. But I wanted to know, _needed _to know.

Carlisle and Esme returned. They chatted pleasantly with Rosalie. Well, _to _Rosalie, really, since she had so little to say. And all the while, I paced in my room, agitated.

In some way, I felt responsible for Rosalie. If not for my existence, Carlisle might not have changed her. This notion was a trick of my ego, of course, for to accept blame is to affirm power. For some unenlightened reason, I thought I could use my power to help her.

I felt that I needed to speak with Rosalie, only I didn't know how. Truthfully, I've never had a talent for conversation. You might view me as charming, but it's merely the allure of vampirism. As a human, I had been awkward and quiet, and as a vampire, mind-reading had become my crutch.

Eventually, I found the courage to confront Rosalie again, this time with a plan.

"Walk with me?" I proposed one evening, while the other two sat quietly together.

Rosalie hesitated. "Where?"

"Just along the river."

A long pause. I searched her mind, which yielded nothing enlightening.

"I'm no danger to you, Miss Hale," I said impulsively. "You're a newborn. You could subdue me with a flick of your finger."

Something changed in her expression. Her mind warmed slightly. "Very well."

I offered my arm. She didn't take it. Yet she followed me out of the house, and with our speed, we were miles along the Genesee within minutes.

For a long time, we just ran. That hadn't been my plan, but it just felt surprisingly good. Maybe it was the sudden ease in Rosalie's thoughts, the faint tickling of liberation. I watched as the rushing air whipped her hair free of its pins. The golden strands trailed wildly behind her, so much like the luminous tail of a falling star. She ran with her eyes closed, relying entirely on instinct to guide her.

She was beautiful. And everything about her in that moment made me sad.

At last, we stopped, somewhere far from Rochester, beside some distant tendril of the river. For a time, we both remained silent and still, staring at the rushing water.

"You can tell me, Rosalie," I said, my eyes still on the river. "If you're unhappy, you can tell me."

It was a long while before she replied. "_Unhappy_?" She spit the word like poison. "That's delightfully mild."

After the freedom of our run, her vehemence caught me off guard. My response was brash and candid. "I'm sorry Carlisle changed you. I—I'm sorry those men—"

"What do you know about it?" Her voice was low and barbed. "What do you know about suffering, Edward Cullen? Getting sick from the flu? Running out of songs to play on your shiny piano?"

"I just—"

"Save your chivalry and consolations. At least Esme and Carlisle have enough sense to feign ignorance."

I tried to hold the calmness in my tone."With time, it's possible to let go of the past."

Her mind tore apart a pretty dress. Her eyes tore _me _apart. "Let it go?"

I nodded.

"Those men," she snapped, "shouldn't be _let go._"

I detected a stifling darkness rising in her mind. "Rosalie…," I said, feeling panic rise in me again. "Anger is dangerous for a vampire. It can overpower you—"

"Who cares if I get angry? Who cares if I lose control! There's not a god who'd give me mercy now, no matter what I do."

My words flew out urgently, pleadingly. "No. No. If you want mercy, be merciful."

I found myself reaching for her shoulder, to do what, I'm not sure. Perhaps comfort her, perhaps hold her still.

"They don't deserve mercy. They deserve death."

"We can help you—"

She threw my arm off so roughly that I thought she broke a bone. "I don't need your help. I know how to help myself."

Her mind suddenly assaulted me. I saw images of her killing men. Lots of men. I recognized Royce King among them. She was brutal, merciless. And worst of all, her brain was set on doing it. It was as if she'd only been waiting for someone to tell her 'no.' She was only waiting for her act of defiance.

"Contemplate that, mind-reader," she hissed, delivering me one last image of Royce King's dead body.

So Carlisle must have told her about my ability.

"No!" I cried, trying once again to hold her back, to no avail. "That's not the answer, Rosalie. I know it's not. You can't turn back from killing. Trust me."

Her hands were suddenly on either side of my face, grasping me half in headlock, half in condescending sympathy. "I've had enough of trusting men."

And without flinching, she threw me, end over end, into the river.

By the time I resurfaced, she was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

[3]

Even vampires can look pathetic.

When I returned to our house, I was the very image of defeat. Soaking wet, lowered gaze. One of my arms dangled awkwardly from the shoulder—Rosalie's work. A drowned cat would have made a better portrait.

"Dear Lord!" cried Esme, rising to her feet. "What happened?"

Carlisle's mind stammered. "Where is Rosalie?"

"Gone from us, I think." I collapsed to the sofa. "My fault."

"That can't be true, my son."

I shook my head. Carlisle's optimism is infuriating.

"She's off killing Royce King… among others." I gave a listless sigh. "She'll not come back."

"We must stop her!" Carlisle was already at the door.

"Good luck," I snapped. "She's probably gorged herself by now."

I went to my room, ostensibly to change my clothes. You know I was just running away again. _Leave Carlisle to handle his progeny_, I thought, throwing my damp shirt to the floor. _Rosalie is nothing. A simple-minded lunatic. _

I knew that wasn't true. I wanted it to be easy like that, but it wasn't. I dried myself off, adjusted my arm, buttoned a clean shirt, but my mood didn't change. Change is so very hard when you're immortal. I was angry, and I didn't know why. Back then, I thought I had mastered myself, learned to control emotions as crude as anger.

I hadn't mastered anything. I was just a scrap of debris endlessly drifting through space. I'd go on and on forever through empty blackness, never changing speed, never pausing. All these years, I had been drifting… _waiting. _Waiting for someone to hold out her hands and stop me.

Days passed. I dwelled alone in our house. I knew Esme and Carlisle were out searching for the newest Cullen, trying to save her from damnation. I know the taste of futility. She could not be saved. She _would _not be saved.

But something changed in those days of aloneness. Vampires can't dream—not really. We don't even sleep. It's a human gift we have lost. Hope and fantasy cannot enfold us in the night hours any longer. I know I can't dream, but I felt trapped in reverie of Rosalie Hale.

In darkness, I remembered things. The flickers of agony, the roughhewn walls of her spirit, molten gold hair and red fire words. A new door opened in my conscience, and I realized that the hard glassiness of Rosalie's mind might not be the mark of shallowness after all. There was a dangerous depth there, and I was sinking all the time. I was drawn inexorably, and I could not muster enough condescension or obstinacy to stop myself.

On the ninth day of Rosalie's absence, I left the house. Some other force was moving me now—neither hunger nor righteousness. Not even gravity. I knew innately where to find her. I'm not sure how I knew—maybe by some residual frost of her thoughts.

I ended up beside a stately brick house at the edge of Highland Park. Within, the Hales lay in restless sleep. Rosalie's mother dreamed of winged monsters dragging her daughter through Hell. Her little brother fell for miles into a black abyss. Nightmare.

I sat down on the stone steps and waited. I knew she would come back, for she had been here days earlier, to reclaim her gown. The dress in which she would have been crowned a King.

Moments later, a breeze stirred my hair, and she was there before me, a pale ghost in the night. She was robed by diaphanous fabric, a delicate train now defiled by mud. A veil fell over her face, obscuring all but the crimson glow of her eyes.

Not a speck of blood marked her grown. Not a blink of crimson marked her mind.

"You…" Words seemed to fail me. "You didn't feed."

I felt her rage like waves of heat from the pavement. "Why did you come here?" she hissed. "To chastise me? To drag me home to your stupid imitation of morality?"

"You didn't…"

"I did," she said, smiling viciously. "I _did _kill them. Every. Last. One."

I stood, consumed by disbelief. "But you didn't drink."

"I am _not _a slave to hunger," she shrieked. "I am not a _man._"

Mrs. Hale awoke in the room above, gasping, sweating. Rosalie turned and ran, like a gust of fresh snow into the distance.

I followed, for I could not let her go again. I needed to draw out the mystery. I needed her to stop the endless drift.

I caught her atop a lock's iron cable on the Erie Canal. The line was only wide enough for her toes, but she stood at the center with perfect stability, almost invisible at a distance. Perhaps she meant to escape me, but it's hard to hide from a mind-reader. Before she could flee, I was there beside her, both of us poised on the metal tightrope.

"Leave me alone!" she shouted over the bluster of wind.

I shook my head frantically. "No." What was I doing?

"Please." Her voice cracked. "Why? Why won't you just leave!"

Habit begged me to tell her, _because you need guidance… because you've fallen… because you need me._ But none of that was true. What _was _my reason? I hated her, hated Carlisle for turning her. Why wouldn't I leave?

"Because…" I croaked, feeling pathetically human… confused. "Because I— I— can't."

I looked at her desperately, pleadingly. I was master of nothing. I was at her mercy.

She said nothing. Her mind was a stretch of desert. She gave me nothing.

I reached for her, and she flinched, nearly falling from our slim perch. But my fingers barely brushed against her hair. With a flash, I lifted her wedding veil, revealing the harsh, transcendent face beneath. Her red eyes pierced the night, no longer obscured by gauzy fabric.

"See." It was all I could say. I motioned to her eyes, then to me. "See."

And for the first time in my life, I let go of myself. I was not a hero, a villain, or a victim. I wasn't a human, or a vampire. Neither Masen nor Cullen. I was hers. And she could kill me, kiss me, forgive or condemn me.

I didn't understand. I was still filled with loathing—for her, for myself. But all I could do was lift my arms in surrender and kneel before her.

She shook. Her face contorted and thoughts burst from her brain. Before I could interpret anything at all, she flew at me, hands around my throat, as if she could strangle a creature with no need of air.

Together we fell to the canal below, all the way to the water's bottom. Her fists hammered against my chest, her eyes filled with emotion, hair swirling Medusa-like in the water. She unleashed it all on me.

I finally heard her thoughts. She had killed them without mercy, exercising immense control of her hunger. She had snapped necks and stared into guilty eyes. She had played the Angel of Death with elegant precision.

But it had all been for naught. Rosalie Hale had found no relief. Revenge, justice, escape—they had all slipped through her grasp. And now, conquered by despair, hollowed out by inhumanity, she beat her fists against me.

I closed my eyes beneath the water and submitted myself. I understood her pain at last. Rosalie Hale deserved her revenge. She deserved more—her life. But time ticks in one direction only, and she could not have back what men had stolen. Mortal men stole her innocence. Immortal men stole her peace.

I lay on the canal bed as she hit me. It hurt. But at some imperceptible moment, the assault ended. Her arms wrapped desperately around my ribcage. Her cheek pressed against my chest. I realized then what I was. She was a woman hanging from the edge of a cliff. I was just a tiny indent in the rock—the thing she must hold to keep from falling. She needed to hold, and she hated to hold. But she was too strong to let herself fall.

I held her, too. Perhaps, I thought, if I could find a shred of humanity, I might lift her from the edge. For now, all either of us could do was hold on. We stayed like this, beneath the water, for many days. Silt gathered over us, the shadows of boats passed.

At last, when the sun cut through the water, and Rosalie craved the air once more, we rose to the shore. Thoughts slid languidly from her mind to mine. The cracked glass of fear, the sickly whine of anguish, the empty cavern of guilt.

"Edward," she tried, voice weak. "I'm—" But she couldn't finish.

I looked into her eyes. I looked into her mind. I bowed my head and said, "I know."


End file.
